Forked Paths
by previouslyjade
Summary: Éowyn is only fourteen when a gifted young man called Gríma is appointed King's Counsellor. Following his father's footsteps, he gains widespread trust. This is the story of the lengthening of the Shadow, the corruption of a man, the souring of a friendship, and the eventual redemption of a woman in despair.
1. By Appointment of the King

**1\. By Appointment of the King.**

 _"See, Théoden, here is a snake! To slay it would be just. But it was not always as it is now. Once it was a man, and it did you service in its fashion."_ — _The Two Towers_.

 _Disclaimer: I do not own Middle-Earth, LOTR or the characters found therein._

 _A/N: There's little to say. I'm a long-standing Tolkien fan and have done a lot of thinking about his world and characters, particularly his portrayal of the nature of evil, and the possibility of redemption. This story will be mainly canon-compliant according to the BOOK, not the movie (though I see that I have erred already on the matter of Wormtongue's skin colour, as I remembered wrongly when I was writing). It is the backstory of Éowyn most particularly, and will continue until her marriage to Faramir, but as such it is also the story of Edoras during the troubled years before the war, and of Gríma Wormtongue, the loyal servant turned treacherous counsellor, and his desire for Éowyn. I realise the tone of this opening chapter may make readers uneasy, but I will say no more at present_ — _if you have thoughts, questions or concerns, please leave a review and I will endeavour to respond to your satisfaction in my next Author's Note! Please don't expect regular updates, but I'll do my best._

 _I hope you enjoy :)_

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The autumn of Éowyn's fourteenth year rose up bleak and cold over an insufficient summer. The winds that blew from the East bit like ice, and stirred up eddy after eddy of brown leaves and stinging dirt that blew into the great hall of Edoras whenever the gates were opened, even if only for a moment. And soon enough there came a day when the great gates opened and a gust of disquiet blew in that set even the rich tapestries of the King's council-chamber to flapping like a washerwoman's sheets.

The sorry tale was this. A small band of men had slunk over the border by night — Southrons, none quite knew how many — with garrottes and a poisoned knife; and when morning broke, Galmod, the King's counsellor, lay in his death-throes, with his wife and children strangled where they lay. His son Gríma, riding in from a hunting trip soon after daybreak, came only in time to close his father's eyes.

The news reached Théoden and his household by noon, and by evening, Gríma was kneeling in the Great Hall, offering up his sword in service to the King amid a hush of shock and pity. There was some muttering of vengeance, but all who were present knew well enough its impotence. This was not a deed of political moment, but the settling of an old feud, bitter ending as it might be — the pursuit of vengeance would merely cost more lives, and perhaps lead to war, as Gríma himself said a little bitterly. No, the only thing to do was to let the matter lie, and give the slain honourable burial. And Gríma himself would take his father's place as the King's third counsellor.

Éowyn, watching from three paces behind her uncle's chair, thought him touched with a certain desperate grace as he knelt, his hands on Théoden's knees, to take the oath of fealty — swarthy-skinned like his Southron father, tall like his Rohirric mother, dark-haired like his father, blue-eyed like his mother. Yet his gaze, when he raised it, was imbued with a pale fire that had not been set there by his recent griefs alone. And when he met her eyes for a brief moment, as she waited behind the King's chair, his glance was keen — hardly that of a man numbed by shock — and stirred a disquiet within her that she could not name.

Once the oath was sworn, they feasted as was customary, though gloom lay on all of them. The repast itself was modest — already they were conserving their resources against the bite of winter. Only once or twice did any laughter ring out; and it was swiftly quelled. Even the hounds of the hall lay quiet, not scuffling or wandering, but motionless and alert, close by their masters' legs.

Éowyn served as cupbearer, as was her wont; and after the meal, she bore the cup to Gríma. Very straight he sat, his mouth set firm as a sword-blade — remote and resolute. Yet she saw with a sudden stab, of pity perhaps, that his hands shook on the cup, and there were shadows beneath his keen eyes, hooded like those of a mountain-eagle. And small wonder, after the day's events.

Gríma raised the cup and drank deep, then looked up at her.

"Thank you, Lady of Rohan," he said. His voice was very clear, but quiet, and somehow unutterably weary. Éowyn smiled wryly.

"Lady, you say? Most in this hall deem me still a child, although I have seen fourteen summers." But she was immediately ashamed of her rancour, which had not been directed at him.

An unreadable look veiled his blue eyes. "Many would have said the same of me before today, and I have seen twenty-four." His voice was too gentle, and once again, she felt that she reddened with shame.

"I ask your pardon, my lord," she said, averting her gaze.

"Pardon for what?" he said lightly. It was not really a question. Then — "But I should take my leave. I have much to attend to before I can rest tonight."

"Of course," said Éowyn, still abashed, stepping back as he extricated himself from his place at the mead-bench. Then, remembering her duties as cup-bearer, she moved to offer the cup to Háma, a young King's guardsman, barely bearded, sitting one place along on the bench. Yet even as she moved along the row of men, offering and receiving the cup with practiced hands, her eyes followed Gríma as he left the hall, pausing to make his apologies to the King. Tall and proud — and _lonely_ , she thought, with again that strange stirring of disquiet. And as he passed from the brightness of the lanterns to the shadows around the entrance of the hall, he seemed to slump and be diminished, as though it had been only the scrutiny of many eyes that kept him upright.

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 _A/N: Thoughts? Please leave a review! Or if you'd rather, tell me who is your favourite LOTR character, and why. Thanks for reading!_


	2. Resting and Restless

**2\. Resting and Restless.**

 _Disclaimer: Still don't own LOTR_

 _A/N: Well, I'm back! I've decided to stick with shorter chapters so I can update a bit more frequently, but I'm still pretty short on time so once every few weeks will probably be the standard rate. I was thrilled by the reception this story has received so far — thank you Certh and neverland300690 for your kind and in-depth reviews, and I hope this chapter lives up to expectations, with a bit more insight into young Éowyn and Gríma!_

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They made a great burial-mound for the fallen Counsellor and his family, ringed about with spears as for one who had fallen in war-time, and stood around it, weeping, as afternoon turned to dusk, and the wind chased dark scraps of cloud across the red Western sky. They made a goodly crowd — the King's Council, the King's own family, and a scattering of women and bairns from Gríma's mother's kin. For he was the last man among his kin, save for a distant cousin who lived on the far Northern slopes, beyond Fangorn, and an old uncle, toothless and dotard, who wandered ever in a kind of waking dream.

The one whom grief touched most closely was the only one who did not weep. Éowyn, blinking a stray tear from her own eyes, watched with a kind of wonder his pale lips that delivered the words of ritual, unfaltering, and the shadows beneath his dry, blazing eyes. When it was done and the watchers began to file away, cloaks drawn close against the bite of the wind, she lingered a few paces from the site, watching the tall figure that stood as though transfixed against the sunset, looking west.

Her brother pulled at her sleeve. "Come, sister. Night falls and we have not supped. Leave a man to his grief."

"In a little while," Éowyn replied, not taking her eyes off Gríma's still form.

"You promised me a game of draughts by the fireside," Éomer reminded her.

"And you shall have it," Éowyn replied, unmoved. "But leave a woman to watch awhile, first."

Éomer's eyebrows lifted. "Woman? Aye, then I am an old man. Very well, I shall go. See you do not return too late!" And as he left he scuffed the top of her head, snagging several of the shining hairs that she had pinned and braided so carefully that morning, so that they fell this way and that in tangled loops and wisps.

A fresh gust of wind set the hedgerows tossing, and made her draw her cloak more tightly around her, shivering. A blackbird, turning lately homewards, wheeled and called, and others answered from the shelter of the trees. The light of the dying sun at Night's western rim was nearly gone, and in the sky already there stood row upon row of stars, battle-ready with their shining spears. And still Gríma stood, and did not stir.

To her own annoyance, Éowyn's stomach growled, and into her mind came unbidden the thought of the warm hearth-fire, and hot pottage, and stew, and watered mead, and the soft nest of cushions and blankets that she and Éomer would make for themselves before settling to their game of draughts. And she felt foolish for waiting in the cold — for what purpose? — and even a little guilty, for it came to her that most likely Gríma would not be pleased that she had spied on his grief. And, picking up her skirts, she was about to turn for home with but one last look over her shoulder, when she saw him turn and walk back towards the path, slowly, with his head bent low and the hood of his cloak drawn down over it.

There was nothing for it now but to stand still and wait for him to walk by, or acknowledge her — whichever he had the mind to do. Or perhaps — guilt now simultaneously churning in her stomach and weighing it down as though with lead — indeed to chide her, who was no kinswoman, for daring to look upon his last vigil. She drew herself up very straight and forced herself to watch him, not the ground, as he approached.

Her heart beat fast as he drew closer, but he did not acknowledge her, and she thought that perhaps he had not seen her, so deep his thought. But instead of passing her by, he stopped and greeted her quietly.

She responded, flustered. "My pardon, lord. I thought you had not seen me."

"The starlight shines on your hair, lady. It would be hard to miss." Yet his voice was grave, with no flicker of laughter in it.

"I did not mean to disturb your thought," she said, feeling an old compulsion to justify herself, though he did not seem angry. Yet how might anger reveal itself in one so quiet? Not, she thought, as it did in one such as her brother, who might shout and blaze like dry kindling in summer while the mood was on him, and then be still again, like a summer storm that passes.

"I would not think so ill of you," he said, very dryly, and Éowyn was glad that the darkness cloaked her surprise. She had thought that he might respond, _Not at all_ , or _It's nothing_ , or even _You are pardoned_. But it seemed instead that he had divined her thought, that need she had felt to justify standing all alone in the dark and watching him — and that it afforded him some grim amusement. Suddenly she was certain — though she could not be certain — that, in the shadow of his hood, he was smiling; and she was abashed, and gave him no reply.

A minute they stood thus, as the birds muttered in the trees and yet more stars joined the ranks of the sky. Then — "Come," he said. "You will be missed at the hall. I will walk you thither."

"There is no need, my lord," Éowyn protested, ashamed once again. "You must be in need of solitude and rest. I shall make my own way home and cease to trouble you."

"My house is empty, and its floor and walls are still stained with blood and memories," Gríma commented dryly. "It will not miss me if I spare a few minutes to walk you home."

"Of course," murmured Éowyn, and meekly followed his long strides. For a few moments they were silent, though the paths required little effort to negotiate even in the dark, having been swept smooth of all large pebbles for the sake of horses' hooves; and the hedgerows well-trimmed, lest an overhanging branch sweep an unwary rider from his saddle.

But after a minute Gríma spoke again. "What are you thinking, Lady of Rohan?" he asked — and there was a hint of mockery in his tone; yet she sensed it was not for her.

There were many possible answers. _That you must think me a foolish child, or worse, a callous fool, for spying on you as you guarded your family's grave. That you are unlike any man I have ever met, and I know not whether to be curious or afraid. That I think perhaps, in some ways, we are not unalike. That I am sorry for disturbing your peace._

Instead, she found herself saying, "I have heard that you do not plan to seek revenge."

She heard, rather than saw, Gríma stop dead. Even his breathing seemed to have been stilled. Her own hands were clammy. She had overstepped — how, she was not sure. The line that separated sadness from anger? And still her companion did not speak.

"If it was I," (she heard herself speaking, although she had told herself to be silent and not to overstep herself further) "I would not rest until I had run them through! That at least might make grief easier to bear."

"Indeed." They were walking again. Éowyn bit her lip, and Gríma spoke no more.

They neared the gates of Edoras — standing open, though with an armed guard on either side. It was then that he said, very quietly, "One day — and it will be in my own fashion." And it was on the tip of her tongue to ask him what fashion that might be, when the guard hailed them, and between that, and her wish to cause no further embarrassment, and her fear that she had heard wrong after all, she was silent, and allowed herself meekly to be ushered through the gates.

And Théodred, the king's son, a tall man of thirty summers, greeted them at the inner door, and drew Gríma in with a hearty clap on one shoulder, saying that he, Gríma, must dine at Edoras that night, and that she, Éowyn, should not stay out so late to catch her death of cold — though his eyes were kind and he smiled as he spoke. The warmth and clamour of the hall enfolded them immediately, and Éowyn knew that her questions would not be answered that night.

Later, as she and Éomer sat, the warmth of a half-grown hound puppy against her side, and the warmth of a good meal in her belly, with the game-board between them, she glanced up between moves and found that he was looking at her. "What?" she said, a trifle testily.

He spread out his hands in a placating gesture. "I merely wonder what possessed my sister to bide alone in the dark for a full half-hour, watching a man stand over a grave."

A half-hour! So long? Éowyn had not been aware that she had stood for more than a few minutes. And indeed, she did not know herself what had prompted her to do so. "The sunset was beautiful and I wished to watch it to the end," she said.

"Ah," said Éomer, and bent his head over the board again; but amusement twitched at his lips, and Éowyn saw, and liked it not.

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 _A/N: What did you think? Reviews are always appreciated :)_


	3. King's Council

Chapter 3. King's Council.

 _Disclaimer: Still don't own LOTR_

 _A/N: It's been a heck of a two years, but with the whole social isolation thing I finally have enough of a breather to post this chapter (most of which I actually wrote a while ago, but it's nice to finally be able to refurbish and upload it). Hope you enjoy!_

 _Also thanks so much to Sliven, Wordspin and CarawynO for reviewing!_

The Council met the following day, seated at the long table in the hall. Éowyn and her brother had been banished, together with the servants, but Théodred, as the King's son and a man grown, was in attendance, together with the other Marshals and the five grey-bearded Counsellors and Gríma, black-haired and beardless.

The King, tall at the head of the table, came directly to the matter at hand. "My friends, I have need of your counsel for the coming winter. Doubtless you have all seen or surmised how famine already stalks our borders, though it be but early autumn. It will be a hard winter, the worst perhaps that Rohan has seen since I was a boy, and our warriors cooked and ate the horses that had lain down and died in the fields."

There was a troubled murmur of assent. Then Heardseax, the eldest Counsellor, rose; the hairs grew but sparsely atop his weathered head, and his sword-hand was missing three fingers from an ancient fray. Yet when he spoke, his voice was clear and deep.

"Then let us ask Gondor for aid, lord. They have ever been ready to give it."

There was some nodding; but also some doubt on the faces of the assembled. And Æthelthain, a younger man, though still grizzled and beginning to stoop, arose and said, "Your pardon, Heardseax, but consider thou this: Gondor's land is less fertile than ours. The westering sun shines on them harshly in summer, and their rains this autumn have been few, just as ours have been. They are a great kingdom, with many more mouths to feed. Aid they may give, for the sake of our old friendship, but they would be generous indeed not to grudge it."

"Ay, I hear you, Æthelthain," replied the ancient Counsellor. "'Tis true the famine bites their land as well as ours. But they are the greater kingdom, as you say. They may have reserves that we do not. I believe it be at least worth the asking."

"Nay, Counsellor." Théoden's voice was strained. "Am I to say to Denethor, my friend from of old, 'Old friend, I come to thee for aid, knowing that thou hast already more mouths to feed than thou well canst, to be yet another burden upon thee?' I would not do so."

"Then, my lord, we must tighten our belts, and pray that we and our livestock survive the winter!" replied Heardseax, "—for I cannot see what else is to be done."

"Not so!" there spoke a quiet voice, a little husky, that nonetheless fell echoing. "My lords, there is a third choice of which we have not spoken. Let us look to the South! For corn grows in plenty by her rivers, and though her seasons be strange and changeful, her people have learned to cultivate a crop for every terrain, from desert to mud flat, that can be found in that wide land. Sheep and goats, too, are raised in abundance; the meat salted and stored for winter in quantities far surpassing what we can manage."

All present turned to look at the speaker whose dark skin and hair declared his father's lineage, even as his height and blue eyes declared his mother's. Gríma's head was up, his lips curved in a slight smile, his eyes half-veiled, as though to say that he was quite aware that they were weighing his counsel against his family history, but cared not. Yet faint lines had appeared at the corners of that smile, and between his brows, as though at some secret pain.

Théoden was the first to speak. "There has been no love lost between Rohan and the South for many scores of years, notwithstanding your own father's history, Gríma son of Galmod. I mean no discourtesy to your lineage or your father's loyalty, but you must know that we in Rohan have ever been wary of the South, knowing of the Dark Power that looms there and casts its shadow over all the lands that lie South and East. I fear that any negotiation with the South would soon prove an ill alliance."

Gríma nodded. His gaze was very steady, though he swallowed hard before he spoke. "I know, my lord. But the South is hardly a unified land. Many peoples live within her borders — many of whom, indeed, remain proud and free, and have been thus since before living memory. I cannot see that it would be either shameful or unwise to trade with those who, like us, shun the Dark Power in the East, and value their freedom above all else."

There was some nodding. Only old Æthelthain, and red-haired Erkenbrand, the young lord of the Westfold, scowled and looked darkly at Gríma. Théoden's blue eyes roved past the assembled men into the distance, and he sat some moments in silent thought while his Counsellors muttered among themselves. At last he spoke.

"Well, Gríma. Let us say you have convinced us. What then do you propose we trade in return for these wonderful Southern commodities?"

"Horses," Gríma said simply.

There was an indrawn breath. "You do not comprehend what that would mean," growled Erkenbrand. "Are we to ask our householders, our young warriors, our people young and old, to sacrifice the beasts that are as kin to us? It is as though you asked each of us to open a vein and let our life's blood drain away — or chop off three fingers each — or to sell, each of us, his last-born daughter —"

"Peace, sister's son!" Ferth, the fourth Counsellor, had been silent; now, he shot a quelling look in Erkenbrand's direction. But Erkenbrand was not to be quelled. "Nay, uncle! I merely tell this child of the South what it is he presumes to ask of us!"

"Peace!" Théoden's fist came down upon the table; his voice was terrible. "If you cannot treat my Counsellor with courtesy, Erkenbrand, then do not speak at all. As for you, Gríma, you ask a hard thing. Pray convince myself and these other lords why we should be willing to make such a sacrifice."

Gríma had grown even paler — his lips thinned and his cheeks pinched inwards. He met Théoden's eyes for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "A hard thing to ask, indeed. You are thinking, the Southrons are cruel people. They have no care for horses — or even if they did, they would not know how to handle them. You may be right. But herein lies our advantage — many of the Southern tribes are already feeling the looming threat in the East. They are eager for a military advantage. If they could ride horses in war they would be the better equipped to fend off the Dark armies when they come — and they _will_ come."

Théodred interrupted, frowning. "What you are saying, in fact, is that we should look to an alliance with the South against the East."

"Yes."

A chorus of mutters and growls rose from the Council. "Never!" shouted Erkenbrand.

"Hear me!" It was the first time any of them had heard Gríma raise his voice, and they quelled momentarily with the sheer surprise of it. "The East is the greatest power to arise in our times, and it grows stronger every day. Do you really think it better to fight a twofold enemy — the East and the South — than to join with the South _now_ and secure their alliance? I propose an embassy — a band of twelve warlords and some of their people. The people of Harad will learn our customs and we will learn theirs. We will teach them how to handle horses and ride them into battle. When we leave, we will invite their leaders to come with us — to visit the Rohirrim and be presented to Théoden King."

"And so we will have food for today and allies for tomorrow," said Théodred. "I believe that what you have suggested is wise, Gríma Galmodsson."

"But what of treachery?" Ferth spoke up next. "Better an enemy than an ally that can't be trusted."

"I assure you, whatever you may have heard, the free Southern tribes hold their honour dearly." A trace of bitterness coloured Gríma's tone. "But if you want to make sure — no Southern chief would break an oath sworn before his gods."

"So a painted bogeyman is to be the safeguard for our lives?" shouted Erkenbrand. The Council dissolved into shouting once more.

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In the end they put it to a vote. Though Erkenbrand and a small faction of the Council were still in vehement opposition, the decision was made to send an embassy to Harad, and thence to a number of the smaller tribes that were friendly towards Harad and not yet under the influence of Mordor. Gríma was to be its leader, by his own request. When Théoden at last dismissed the Council, many a hard glare from beneath lowered eyebrows was sent towards Gríma; yet no-one raised an objection aloud.

At last the hall was empty, save for Gríma and Théoden. The dark-haired man bowed and turned to leave, but Théoden's voice halted him. "Stay a moment, Gríma."

"My liege?"

"Fear not!" Théoden said hastily, seeing the flash of disquiet in the younger man's eyes, followed by the swift guardedness in all his features. "Already you have done great service in my Council, and I am more than pleased. Now, I will speak plainly. My heart misgives, knowing the recent fate of your father, that you should be one of our emissaries to Harad." Here Gríma's eyes flashed, and his lips parted as if to speak, but Théoden held up a hand.

"I fear not the strength of your self-control," he continued, "nor your ability to treat any diplomatic exchange with the courtesy and detachment it requires. What I fear is the toll it will inevitably take on _you_. While it is your prerogative, as the man who suggested negotiation with Harad as the way forward, to lead this expedition, I wish to let you know that you are free to pass that responsibility onto other shoulders, and it is my counsel, as your friend, rather than as your King, that it may be best to do so."

"Your pardon, lord!" Gríma's voice was thick, as though struggling with some emotion, though his face betrayed no sign. "But if you are satisfied of my ability to carry out this mission, then I beg you to allow me to do so. I assure you, my lord, my heart will fare well enough." He stopped, collecting himself. "Long have I desired to see the land of my father, that I have not beheld since I was a child," he added.

Théoden smiled at him, though his eyes were troubled. "Then you shall go," he said. "Far be it from me to begrudge a man the sight of his childhood home — or the right to fulfil his duty. Æthelthain shall go with you — he is yet young enough to bear many days on horseback without aching — and I shall send also five retainers from my household. Théodred will be disappointed — he has long wished to see the far Southern lands; but he is due to depart for Gondor in a week's time, and so you will have to spare him. But I am sure you have no wish to hear me ramble. You may go."

Gríma bowed low, and kissed the King's hand. "Thank you, my lord. I will not disappoint you." Yet the touch of his lips was ice-cold on Théoden's weathered hand, and the King felt again the misgiving stirring in his heart.

 _A/N. Please review!_


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